


share your mouthful

by bettyboopz



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Choking, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Riding, a lot of contemplating the nature of things during sex, because god forbid they just fuck like normal people, biting kink, cannibalism lite, hannibal's unleashed a monster and he's so pleased, pretty corny for a couple of serial killers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-13
Updated: 2019-09-13
Packaged: 2020-10-17 18:56:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20625923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bettyboopz/pseuds/bettyboopz
Summary: He's about to wax poetic about love and loss when his head is slammed into the wall.





	share your mouthful

The back of Will’s head is an enticing sight. The worthwhile world encased in such fragile wrappings, garnished in dark curls, now matted with blood. It’s tipped back against the rim of the tub, his body sprawled  out  carelessly. Hannibal pauses in the doorway, taking a few beats to just stare, savor this moment. Mindful of the draft he’s let in, he’s careful to silently shut the door behind himself.

The water is candy-red; patches of stubborn blood still cling to Will’s chest and arms. In the artificial light he looks nearly grey. His vulnerable throat is fully exposed, unconsciously stretched out in supplication. Hannibal studies the restless flicker behind his eyelids. REM sleep. Exhaustion has carried him away over an hour ago.

With his arms akimbo on either side of the tub and his mouth slightly open, he’s a savage image of Ophelia. It would only take two steps to complete the picture: a scattering of flowers and a few inches of water. One, Hannibal could accomplish in seconds.

Just one shove. One little oxygen-depriving pinch.

On socked feet he slips around to Will’s blind spot and gingerly lowers himself to his knees, the tile icy even through the thick fabric of his sweatpants. He takes Will’s head between his hands and squeezes.

“Mm.” Will stirs, but doesn’t open his eyes.

Hannibal smiles to himself and grabs the shampoo, the cheap kind Will favors that has a bear on the bottle. He pours out a dab and  warms it in his palms.

“Hannibal?” Will mumbles.

“Yes, my darling?”

Will doesn’t say anything else right away, just pushes into his touch.

He continues to gently massage Will’s temples. He hasn’t been sleeping well in the last few weeks since they’ve exchanged one safehouse for another, his sinuses unused to the change in climate and altitude. He never complains, but he can sense Will’s pain like old women claim to feel  oncoming weather in their bones.

The inclination to think of what he feels for Will as worship is never stronger than when he’s on his knees before him. In his mind, the bathroom is transformed into a miniature chapel. The dim fluorescents become guttering candlelight, warm and coppery; the tile floor is carpeted in rich velvet, each handful of clean water over Will’s head a baptism, a blessing. The hard set of their features in the square of night in the window are as resplendent as stained glass.

Will’s, voice, when it comes, still fogged by a dream, is a sermon and a challenge from God.

“If you were to eat me,” he says, “where would you start?”

Hannibal presses his smile to Will’s damp ear. “Would you like the vulgar answer or a romantic one?”

He feels as well as hears the answering scoff, the bitten off retort.  He’s fully awake now.  “Romantic.”

Hannibal slides his hand around to Will’s chest, splays his fingers across his breastbone. “The heart has long been a symbol of longing, affection and devotion. The birthplace of all love and desire. Personally, I find it has a pleasantly earthy taste.”

Will huffs, leaning his head against Hannibal’s shoulder.

“Of course, I wouldn’t let an inch of you go to waste,” he continues, cupping a handful of water with one hand to rinse Will’s hair and using the other to shield his eyes. “You are too precious a thing not to use up completely.”

“Good to the last drop, huh?” Will lips halfheartedly at his neck before going still. Hannibal wonders if he’s drifted back asleep when he speaks again. “Tell me how you would use me, then.”

“I’d wear your blood in a vial around my neck. I would set it in a ring like the finest amber, and never take it off. The rest I would drink, bathe in. Use as lubrication.”

“Jesus Christ, Hannibal.”

“Your meat and other organs would serve as lovely dishes. To be jealously saved, preserved over months, only to be eaten on special occasions.”

“Only fed to special guests,” Will guesses.

“Never,” Hannibal says a little too solemnly. “Only I would ever have your flesh . ”

Will shivers against him even as he rolls his eyes. “What else?”

“Your skin I would graft into a coat lining.” He curls forward, pressing his chest to Will’s naked back. The fabric of his shirt instantly becomes soaked, sticking them together like glue. He rubs his unshaven cheek along Will’s neck. “Perhaps a pillowcase.”

A laugh bursts involuntarily from Will’s throat. “You’re fucking sick.”

“You’ve caught me, hm? Shall I stop?”

“No, keep going.”

He hums thoughtfully as he scrubs the offensive-smelling suds deep into Will’s tender scalp. “I dabbled in carpentry in my twenties, have I ever told you that? I would make your bones into utensils. Hairbrushes. A knife handle. A chair.”

“ How practical of you. But I think you’re being overly optimistic about how many bones I have.” He waves his bad arm. “Or how sturdy they are.”

Hannibal wants to laugh at the idea that he of all people isn’t intimately aware of how many bones are in the human body. Instead he takes the bucket of water he’d brought with him and unceremoniously dumps the last of it over Will’s head.

“Good to the last drop, Will. If my designs fell apart from poor craftmanship I would simply keep the broken pieces as knickknacks. I’d hang them on the walls, a stray fibula here, a former fork there.”

Will shakes his head like a dog, snorting water out of his nose.

“In other words, you aren’t picky.”

“I will have you in any way I can,” Hannibal agrees. “If you ever denied me, life would be dreary indeed.”

“What would you do?” Will asks curiously in the tone of someone asking a scientist what would happen if you mixed certain chemicals. “If I denied you.”

Hannibal considers a moment. “I don’t know,” he says honestly. “I don’t believe you would.”

“If you did believe it.”

Hannibal  throws the idea violently from his mind . “I spent three years in prison for you. Much of the time I expected to die there, never to see you again. I suspect I would let you go and waste away.”

“That’s a shame,” Will says. “I’d never let you go to waste, Hannibal.” He pauses, visibly rolls the words around in his mouth. “I love you too much.”

It isn’t something Will ever says, and something fractures in Hannibal. It’s not unlike hitting a cement slab of water in freefall. He’s not sure if he’s smiling or cringing wretchedly like a man beaten within an inch of his life when he says, “I suppose you would do me the same courtesy, then?”

“I’m not as artistic as you, but I’d use you up.” He tilts his head up and waits until Hannibal takes the hint and kisses his mouth. He has to strain to reach him, and Will pulls back after only a second. “Good to the last drop,” Will says, smiling at him from upside down. “When I was a kid, my dad would eat the fish he caught like that. Fry the skin and meat and fat, pop the eyes into his mouth like bonbons. He’d gnaw at the bones and pick his teeth with them for hours afterwards,” Will confides against his lips. “That’s how I’d use you.”

Hannibal growls and lunges for another kiss, but Will has already turned away. Hannibal breathes heavily against the back of his neck for a moment before he forces himself to sit back on his heels.

“I’m going to choose the next one,” Will says, his clipped tone near businesslike after their exchange. “Clean me up.”

Hannibal does. There’s a soiled washrag draped across the side of the tub, and he takes up a new one and scrubs viciously at the marks on Will’s body that aren’t his.

“This was sloppy,” Will continues , his eyes closed . “Unsatisfying. It didn’t feel like you.”

“And you want it to feel like me,” Hannibal says, unnervingly out of breath.

The bloody flakes clinging to Will’s skin were a hit-and-runner named Phillips.

They’d been taking the backroad from one of their rare trips to town. Will had been the passenger, one leg curled under himself, turned in his seat facing Hannibal. He’d been saying something about Hannibal’s hair growing out, a private, sleepy little smile on his face. He found something about it funny, and he’d reached out to brush his bangs from his eyes. His hand had lingered and he’d been about to say something else when the truck tailgating them had rammed them from behind.

Will had found that funny too, but, the retreating Chevy Silverado’s screaming tires buzzing in his ears, their stolen car nosing the edge of a ditch, the loss of Will’s touch and what he’d been prepared to say hollowing Hannibal like a melon baller, Hannibal . . . had not.

He waited a barebones two days before going after him, staking out the same road he’d travelled with Will every afternoon. He’d waited a week before he saw the same pickup careening around the curve and out of sight doing 90, the same flash of hair curling from beneath a ballcap. He’d followed him home and asked Will that night to accompany him _ on an outing. _

It’s almost dawn now. Hannibal recalls how the unfortunate Mr. Phillips had fought, yanking at Will’s hair, going after both of them with a bat but failing to meet his mark in any way that counted. How Hannibal had hacked at his wrists until he’d let go of Will’s precious head and Will had stabbed him, and stabbed him.

It wasn’t Dolarhyde, but it was beautiful, in its own simple way. Will was beautiful.

His eyes, when he looks at him, are inky black and bottomless.

“If I can’t feel you,” he says, “what’s the point?”

Hannibal wraps a hand around his throat. “Will.”

“You picked him, and I did most of the work. Most people would call that rude.” Will shakes out of his grip. He drains the water and stands, dries himself off perfunctorily, tossing the dirty towel at the wall. He steps out but makes no move to cover himself, walking to the door unselfconsciously, regally.

Little droplets still dot his legs and a dark patch of hair vees from his chest and belly down to his cock lying against his thigh, thick, uncut.  Not entirely soft. Saliva pools in Hannibal’s mouth at the sight.

“You made no objections,” Hannibal says. His voice is raw like he’d been screaming.

“Maybe I just don’t want a voyeur on my shoulder, cheering me on. I want you to participate.”

“Get my hands dirty.” Hannibal stands, testing. Takes another step. Will’s hand hasn’t left the doorknob but he doesn’t open the door, either. Hannibal doesn’t stop until he has him pressed against the  wood , his nose to his neck. He breathes in deep. Will hadn’t  used soap. It’s disgusting. He aches to taste him.

“Are you waiting for permission?” Will arches his neck back, cants his hips into his. “I won’t be the one begging here.”

Hannibal kicks the door open. Will is ready, already tugging his pants down. They end up awkwardly bunched around his knees and Will laughs at the fact he’s not wearing underwear.

“Hopeful, Dr. Lecter?”

“It hasn’t hurt so far.”

“Why don’t you ask me, then? Tell me what you want.”

“Will.”

“Did you lose your manners when you hit your head?”

“Will, _ please _ . ”

“That’s a little better. I’m still not sure what you want from me.”

“Why do you torture me?” Hannibal shakes his head;  of course he knows why. “I believe I’ve made my desires for you quite clear. How I w ish  to possess you. Mentally, spiritually. Carnally.”

“Yeah, I know. You want to _ fuck _ me.”

Hannibal flinches at the profanity.  “I want to make love to you.”

Will laughs at him. “You already own me, like I own you. You might as well scrawl  _ Property of Hannibal Lecter  _ across my ass.  You don’t get to be sappy .”

Not taking the liberty to kick out of his pants, Hannibal sinks to his knees.

“Please, my beloved. Do you not see how utterly you’ve ruined me?”

Will fingers open Hannibal’s mouth and skates his fingertips across his teeth. “I’ve defanged you.”

“I’m wearing a  _ fucking _ flannel shirt and yoga pants. You’ve destroyed me and recreated me in your image.” 

“Language, Doctor.”

“You’re taking great pleasure in me debasing myself.”

“I always like seeing you like this. You know, most people just say  _ I’m horny _ ,  _ let me suck your dick _ . You ’re the one who has  to make a spectacle out of everything.”

Hannibal takes hold of Will’s hips and tries to lean toward his hardening cock, and Will grabs his hair and holds him back.

“I’ve transmuted my art in killing to you,” Hannibal says, gazing up at his Sistine Chapel, his David. “Entirely to you. I care little for making beauty from anything else.”

“You’ve lost your appetite?” Will sounds skeptical.

“For all but you, dear Will.”

“I thought I told you not to be sappy.”

“I could feast on you every day for the rest of my life and never be sated .”

Will stretches Hannibal’s head back as far as it will go, tracing the straining tendons in his neck with his free hand. “Save it for a Hallmark card.”

“I’ll never stop killing. That is an appetite in itself. But I have no interest in doing anything again without you. ”

“That’s beautiful, Hannibal. Truly. Now are you going to ask real nice to suck my dick or are you gonna go to bed hungry?”

Hannibal sighs. “May I please, Will?”

“May you what?”

“From this position, I could easily bite it off.”

“You’re delaying the inevitable, baby.”

“May I . . . suck your dick, Will,  _ please _ ?”

“Oh, is  _ that _ what you wanted? Why didn’t you just say so?”

Will shoves into him without warning. Tears automatically spring to his eyes and he gags, hands scrabbling between Will’s hips, waist and thighs for balance. Will’s coarse hair tickles his nose; the musky scent makes him dizzy with unspeakable want. The bitter taste is all he knows for a moment – everything he is reduced to  _ heat _ and _ wet _ and _ pressure _ .

“Look at me.”

Hannibal does, though the reflex to shut his eyes is fierce. He fights it and is rewarded with the sight of Will above him, flushed maroon from the roots of his hair to the base of his cock . Belatedly he realizes the bathwater stained him.

Hannibal whimpers.

Will drags him off him. “What was that?”

“I said fuck my mouth, Will.”

Will obliges him with a groan. Hannibal doesn’t look away from Will’s face, his eyes half-lidded and his mouth working like he’s trying to say something but can’t, or won’t. Hannibal swallows, making a vice of his throat, forcing himself not to cough through willpower alone. Will doubles over, Hannibal’s forehead pressing into his gut, his chest a heavy weight over his head.

“Stop, stop,” Will gasps. Hannibal draws back,  a question not quite making it past his abused throat , but Will is spinning on his heel and heading toward their bedroom.

Hannibal follows. Absurdly, when he doesn’t see Will, his heartbeat stumbles. Had he been only a dream? He’s about to wax poetic about love and loss when his head is slammed into the wall.

It isn’t hard enough to crack or even bruise, but the breath is knocked out of him. He doesn’t fight as he’s thrown bodily onto the bed and straddled, a forearm brusquely shoved into his windpipe.

Will is feverish above him. He leans his weight into Hannibal’s neck and his other arm is twisted behind himself, jerking sporadically.

Hannibal’s hip buck up when he realizes what he’s doing.

His vision is just starting to grey at the edges when Will kisses him. A real kiss, deep and sloppy. His throat is still raw and it feels like Will is trying to crawl into him and eat him from the inside out. Hannibal snakes a hand around to his ass and urges him to move against him, his leaking cock scalding, but Will pulls back.

“Off, take it off,” he’s muttering even as he tears Hannibal’s shirt open. A button hits the bedpost with a clink. He watches Will watch him.

He’s a canvas to Will’s proclivity: purple and green bites are scattered across his bare abdomen. His nipples, in the valleys between his hipbone and his groin, around his navel, several over his chest. The real savagery is his throat. The red skin there could have been flayed with a razorwire; the skin looks chewed-on, a mess of dents and scars.

“Come here, darling,” he says even as Will bows his head and sinks his teeth into his neck.

Hannibal moans, helpless in the jaws of this predator he’s freed from marble. Will rears back, one of his canines ripping through the skin just north of his jugular. The warmth of fresh blood is familiar there. So too is Will’s tongue lapping it up.

A slick hand takes his cock and tugs him in place. Hannibal goes still, holding his breath. Will does the same, he can feel the lack of breath against his skin, Will’s mouth open against the tear in his throat.

They both cry out when Will sinks down onto him.

Hannibal tries to hold on to Will’s hips, arms, anything, but Will grabs his wrists and holds them above his head. He lets go so he can sit back, gesturing for Hannibal to leave his hands where they are. He could ignore it if he really wanted to, fight if Will were to try restraining him again, but the greater part of him prefers watching Will take what he wants, his head tossed back and eyes closed, frantic in his desire, as though Hannibal weren’t there at all and his body was there only for his pleasure.

It’s such a little thing, giving up control to him during sex. He’s already lost so much of it to loving Will, and there’s no taking that back. May as well embrace being possessed in all its forms.

“I’d eat you raw,” Will gasps. “I’d start – while your heart was still beating.”

No stranger to raw flesh, Hannibal shudders.

“I doubt I’d taste very good.”

Will licks his blood off his lips and grins. “I beg to differ.”

Hannibal bears more of his ravaged throat, feels the gash split wider.

“ Have you already started?”

Will tangles his fingers in Hannibal’s chest hair and pulls himself down, pressing his tongue into the cut. He laps at him insistently like a cat intent on a piece of meat; despite himself, Hannibal grabs Will and fucks up into him.

Will doesn’t stop him this time. The force Hannibal uses is almost enough to buck him off and he white-knuckle grips his biceps. He drives back onto him and they establish a rhythm, fast and bruising, rougher than he’s ever dared to be in bed before Will.

He slings an arm around Will’s back and sits up far enough to seal his mouth over his. He tastes himself on Will’s tongue, hot and bitter. His nails scratch down Will’s back, stealing skin.

“Hannibal,” Will moans.

He guides Will’s hand to his throat and he squeezes until he can feel his eyes roll back in his head. Will’s fingertips tightening and digging inside the wound sting like fire, and Hannibal wants him even deeper. He surges up deep into Will as he can possibly go and comes. He can feel it leaking out around his cock in time with their heartbeats. That’s all it takes for Will. He feels a trace of his come hit his chin and he wipes it off with his fingers, shoving them into his mouth.

Will tugs his hand away and licks into his mouth and Hannibal lets him taste himself as he falls back against the mattress, utterly boneless.

They curl into each other. Before Will, in a past life altogether, Hannibal would have immediately showered after sex, needing himself back in control, out of that vulnerable open state, cleansed of the other person’s scent and bodily fluids. Now he would unspool himself from his own body and roll around in Will’s, writhe and wallow in their joined viscera and sweat and grime forever, if he could.

“You ruined my shirt,” he says after awhile. “I was fond of that shirt.”

Will snorts. “It was my shirt.”

“Is there a difference?”

Will looks at him. “I guess not.” He takes his hand and kisses his knuckles without breaking eye contact, letting his teeth graze them and the thin skin in between. “Not anymore.” 

Hannibal doesn’t know if Will plans to take care of the wound in his neck or eat from it while he’s sleeping, but it doesn’t concern him much, whatever the outcome. He lets sleep take him as he stares into Will’s smiling eyes, but not before it occurs to him that though he hasn’t eaten since the morning before, he’s never felt fuller.

**Author's Note:**

> title is from every other freckle by alt-j. please ignore all the random spaces ao3 hates me.


End file.
